


What is wrong with another sin?

by WolfeyKitten



Series: as many times as it takes [2]
Category: Mozart l'Opéra Rock - Mozart/Baguian & Guirao
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Glam Rock, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Reincarnation, Religion Mention, Rock and Roll, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, This is set in the 1980s, kind of?, maybe???
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:21:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24776803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfeyKitten/pseuds/WolfeyKitten
Summary: Salieri had never entangled himself with the debauchery on the Sunset Strip, but Mozart was impossible to refuse. His rose-red passion and decadent dismissal of self-control swept Salieri into a world that was so very unlike his own... but how could it be helped? It was fate that forced them together, after all.Soulmate/80s Rockstar AU.
Relationships: Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart/Antonio Salieri
Series: as many times as it takes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1791937
Comments: 5
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dad was always a fan of Amadeus. He always thought of Mozart as a rockstar. 
> 
> Title from Rock You Like a Hurricane by Scorpions

They were from completely different worlds. Unfortunately, their worlds weren’t so different that they wouldn’t be contracted by the same recording studio. 

The juxtaposition between them was most abundantly clear at the meeting. They sat in the executive office at the top of the high rise, far from the noisy, bustling LA city streets. Salieri was poised and dignified, his long hair tied neatly out of the way, his high-end Italian suit well-fitted to his frame. Mozart was his opposite. A glance to the side let Salieri surreptitiously take in Mozart’s messy blond hair and flashy, unorganized clothing. They had never officially met, but he knew about  _ Mozart. Everyone  _ knew about Mozart. 

The Austrian hard-rocker was topping every chart. MTV constantly aired his videos, all hard guitar solos and sweat-glistened skin and charismatic smiles. Salieri’s eyes began to drift ever further in Mozart’s direction, and he was missing a good portion of the exec’s words. Mozart flashed glanced his way, and even then, his eyes carried that infamous mischievously seductive look. Mozart smiled sickeningly, and Salieri looked away. 

He tried to focus on the exec, but the man in the chair adjacent to him was making it difficult. Salieri could see the faces he made out of the corner of his eye. He swore one was a kissy face, like one would direct at a feral cat to convey a friendship. Even the way he sat was distracting, one foot in the chair and his arm draped lazily over his high knee, his posture terrible, his lack of respect infuriating. Though, it’s not like he expected much better from musicians these days. 

The words “and you’ll be working together for Mozart’s next album,” was the only thing that snapped Salieri from out of his trance. His eyes widened and his attention cut to Mozart, who looked right back at him with an irritatingly smug look, his lips quirked up in the most subtle of smirks, and he leaned even more heavily on his knee. 

Salieri returned his attention to the producer. “You can’t be serious. What use would my music be alongside that of  _ Mozart’s,”  _ the classical composer protested. 

Rosenberg, the recording studio’s executive producer, responded, “Mozart requested that a symphony be composed for integration into his latest album. I know of none more talented than, you, Salieri. I know it is a little unorthodox, but Mozart  _ insisted.”  _

Salieri looked between the two. Mozart seemed to have the real leverage in this negotiation-- he was the number one songwriter and performer in the world right now. It was difficult not to cave to his flights of fancy, especially when nearly all of them turned out to be lucrative strokes of genius. The order made Salieri fume, but even he had to admit that there was genuine talent hidden beneath all of that vexatious peacocking. 

He looked to Mozart for explanation, and it was like the other could read his mind, or at least read the expression on his face. Mozart shrugged, “I’m from Austria. We’re known for classical music, strudel, and fucking up Hitler. I’m just getting back to my roots.” He leaned back in the chair.

“And you think muddying it with your particular  _ brand  _ of sound would be particularly… harmonious?” Hard guitar riffs and delicate strokes of a bow over strings hardly seemed compatible to Salieri. 

“And  _ hopefully  _ lucrative,” Rosenberg chimed in, his expression stern. 

“Relax, I’m not the first to ever do it,” Mozart shook his head in disappointment, “Honestly, Maestro, listen to some more rock n’ roll. It’s good for you.” 

Before Salieri could respond with a snide remark, Mozart stood abruptly and threw his tacky, sequined jacket over his shoulder and sauntered toward the office exit. He paused to lean languidly on the doorframe when Rosenberg sternly reminded him to behave. 

“Relax,  Herr  Rosenberg, I’m sure the Maestro and I will get along  _ exceptionally  _ well.” He spun back around to leave, and Salieri was far too distracted by his long, leather-clad legs to decipher any of the underlying lascivious tones.

* * *

The Sunset Strip wasn’t Salieri’s scene. Even when Mozart insisted he immerse himself in the experience, when he called it “research” into the life of a hair metal performer, he still felt reluctant to try it. Even though he had only known Mozart for a very short amount of time, the unruly musician had already found the best ways to weasel his way under Salieri’s skin. He pestered him to come to his performance,  _ insisted  _ that it was something that needed to be heard live, and that even the widest color TVs couldn’t capture the feeling and the adrenaline that happened on stage… and Salieri  _ had  _ to concede. Even he knew that there was no substitutes for live music. Of course he had VIP access. That didn’t make the venue any less complex and riddled with some of the most interesting people Salieri had ever seen… and definitely not in a good way. 

Leather and fishnets clad the concertgoers, at least those who chose to wear anything over themselves at all. Some people had revealing gashes all over their clothes. All done up with dark makeup and wild hair, Salieri had seen these rock types before, but with so many moving around the massive stadium, Salieri felt dizzy from the culture shock. 

He stayed composed no matter how out of place he felt. When he saw Mozart, decorated in the wild, garish, and  _ provocative  _ ensemble he wore in his videos, Salieri realized just  _ how  _ different their worlds really were. 

Mozart was in and out before Salieri had a chance to react, giving Salieri a wink and he went out on the stage. The sudden, wild cacophony of the audience and the music drowned his discordant emotions. 

Salieri listened for a moment, content with the backstage monitor, unwilling to have braved the crowds for a closer look at Mozart’s performance. The sound was deafening, but Mozart’s guitar riffing sounded perfectly concordant. Not a finger was out of place, even as he began singing. Salieri couldn’t believe how much the man moved around the stage between verses, and eventually, had tore himself away from the monitor, dying to see it for himself. He pushed to the edge of the stage, moving through the producers and coordinators that made the performance happen. He caught sight of Mozart, and froze, mesmerized by the way he played. He played perfectly, his complex sounds untainted by how wildly he performed, his shaggy hair starting to grow slick with sweat, his mesmerizing and charismatic figure drawing the seduction of every fan that watched. A few times, Mozart looked over at him. There were thousands of people cheering below him, the sounds in the stadium were painfully deafening, and Mozart looked into the darkness at the edge of the stage and somehow found Salieri’s eyes. 

Salieri felt his heart crumple. Even though the sounds of the band were rancorous to his ears, Mozart’s parts sounded as polished and beautiful as even the most elegant classical piece. Maybe this would work after all. He watched, mesmerized until Mozart finished a song and the lights on the stage redirected. Mozart galloped toward him and the other backstage onlookers and took an open bottle of water from one of the nameless assistants. He flashed Salieri a suave look, like he knew. He ignored the words of the assistant who took his Les Paul, and the words of the producer that tried to get an update in. He focussed on Salieri. 

“I didn’t think you’d watch me so intently,” he said between breaths. 

Salieri felt his mouth go dry, his untamed thoughts overwhelming his dizzied head. At some point, Mozart had lost his shirt. Salieri refused to look down at that toned, glistening chest, tattoos painting the skin along his arms. He did look at the bright, adrenaline-powered look in Mozart’s eyes. Salieri wished he wouldn’t use that look on him. It was too powerful. 

“I didn’t know it would be so… magnetic.” His mouth felt dry as he admitted it. 

Mozart let out a laugh, a gaudy, terrible laugh that hardly matched his cool personality. “Plenty where that came from, Maestro.” The audience chanted just out of sight, and a producer handed Mozart another guitar. “Ah, one more. Hang tight.” He started to head back onstage, but paused. “You’ll be at the afterparty, right?” Salieri didn’t have a chance to answer. Salieri  _ never  _ had a chance to answer, it was as if Mozart weaved in and out and around like a tornado. Salieri didn’t mind it. He was thankful that he didn’t have a chance to make a choice. 

Mozart definitely wasn’t giving him a choice. After the performance, he wrapped a hand around Salieri’s wrist and dragged him away from the stage. Salieri braced himself; he didn’t have much faith that Mozart wouldn’t just drag him into some party and immediately leave him to fend for himself. 

More people swarmed around them as they headed to the VIP lounge, including Mozart’s band mates and producers, but Mozart held tight to Salieri, making sure he didn’t get lost until they were in the lounge. Eventually he let go, and Salieri watched as Mozart drifted away from him, sucked into the after party like a fish being released into the water. Now the composer was out of his element  _ and  _ alone. 

The lounge was laden with a heavy haze of smoke, both cigarette and otherwise, and that rancorous rock music flooded from the speakers. Everything was drenched in a dim purple light, and promiscuously dressed people were mingling with drinks in their hands. If Salieri felt out of place at the concert, he felt like an alien here. He wandered over to the bar, deciding that he needed to be a little less sober if he was going to face this experience head on. 

Drink in hand and mind muddied with the sinful sounds of Mozart’s music, he let himself get lost in the party. Even with everything going on around him, he still found his thoughts lingering on the show. The way Mozart moved, it was seductive, entrancing, and mixed with his music, his lyrics,  _ everything--  _ it was borderline erotic. He took a deep gulp of his drink.

It’s not like there wasn’t a reason Mozart had become so famous. It wasn’t just his music, it was his presence, his charisma, it was the vulgarity of his music, his movement, his personality. Salieri knew about these things, he knew how much of a draw they were to his fans, he just didn’t think it could affect him the same way. He took another drink, knowing he was just one of millions who listened to Mozart’s music and found something in it worth exalting on high. 

He caught sight of Mozart. The rockstar was lounging across a couch, girls on either arm laying against him. He had covered his chest with a shirt with big, poofy sleeves, and Salieri was thankful. 

“Maestro!” He called, luring Salieri closer. “Come, sit down, praise me some more.” 

One of the girls unstuck themselves from his side. “Wolfie, who is this?” She asked cheerfully. 

Mozart gestured wildly at Salieri. “This is Signore Antonio Salieri, he’s going to help me write my next album.” The people around him tuned in eagerly. “But shhhh, don’t tell anyone. I can’t say any more.” 

It was becoming apparent to Salieri that Mozart had ingested some sort of substance. From the tell-tale smell in the air, he made an educated guess on the identity of at least one of those substances. His hypothesis was proven correct when Mozart rooted around for an instrument that he extended toward Salieri. A small, brightly-colored bowl. “Here, this will take that stick out of your ass.” 

Salieri sighed. “No thank you,  Herr  Mozart. The stick in my ass is good for my posture.” 

Mozart laughed. “Ha! You have a sense of humor. Good, I was getting a little worried. If you don’t smoke, I could get you something else. You name it.” 

“I appreciate the offer,  _ Wolfie,  _ but I must decline.”

He chuckled again. “Hey, you should call me that a little more often. I like the way it sounds from your lips.” 

Salieri restrained a smile. “That couldn’t possibly be a flirt.” 

Mozart grinned widely, his eyes only half lidded. “Course not. I say that stuff to anyone. Besides,” Mozart paused, biting his lip just a little. “I have a  _ soulmate,”  _ he said like it was some kind of brag. 

Soulmates were rare, and there were many ways a soul bond could manifest… most bonds were unique, but the most common manifestation came in the form of tattoo-like marks on the body that betrayed the identity of the soulmate. Mozart had lots of tattoos though, so it would be hard to pick out which one he was born with. 

“Oh? Where is she then?” Salieri pretended not to feel strangely put-off by this information, borderline disgusted. 

Mozart shrugged. “Wish I knew!” 

Salieri did actually grin this time. “The famous Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart is still searching for his soulmate? You’d think it would be easy for you.” 

“Ha! It would be easy if I made it easy, Maestro.”

That made sense. If Mozart was truly searching for a soulmate, he wouldn’t have decorated his body with so many red herrings. “Which tattoo is it?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out, if you’re lucky.” There was something in Mozart’s voice that made Salieri feel like it was a seductive threat. What did Mozart want from him? 

The alcohol dizzied his mind, when he spoke, he realized he hadn’t thought it all the way through. “Getting lucky has never been my style. I prefer direct action.” 

The girls flanking Mozart started to giggle, their teased hair framing their pretty faces. 

Mozart almost faltered. “Tsk tsk, Maestro, how naughty. You wouldn’t happen to be looking for a soulmate as well, hm? Is that why you’re so persistent?” 

Salieri was in a little over his head, but backing down now would be a weakness. “Maybe that’s for me to know, and you to find out… if you’re lucky.”

“Oh, how unfair,” he said playfully, “Well, we’ll have plenty of time to see if we are soulmates over the coming months, dear Salieri. I say I could do a lot worse,” he jested. 

“Do not hold your breath, Herr Mozart _. _ ” __

“You think we aren’t compatible? Don’t they say opposites attract? Don’t tease me so.” 

While that was true, Salieri didn’t think they were from the same world, the more imposing problem was Salieri’s own lack of a soulmate. He had no marks that marred his body, no monochrome that plagued his vision, no compass on his wrist that pointed his way. He did have  _ one  _ thing, but… it wasn’t known to lead someone to a soulmate. 

“As amusing as this exchange has become, I’m afraid this party is hardly my cup of tea.” 

“Ah, the ass stick makes a triumphant return,” he said, much to the amusement of the onlookers of their conversation. “But I get it. I’ll see you in the studio, yeah?” He looked hopeful, as if his boss had not already ordered it, as if it was something Salieri could choose to avoid.

He nodded curtly, and that seemed to satisfy Mozart. He stepped out of the lounge into the busy city streets before Mozart could offer him any thin white lines and breathed a deep sigh. It was so bad for him, the haze, the lights, the sounds, the drink that clouded his good judgement… he knew how easy it would be if he threw himself into something like that, and worst of all-- Mozart sat at the center of it like the apple in sin’s hands. 

God, he was in trouble. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Mozart's show, imagine whatever David Lee Roth had going on in Van Halen's Jump (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SwYN7mTi6HM)
> 
> Please leave a comment if you liked it!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mozart and Salieri write an album together.

Their first session together was in the studio. Mozart had his guitar, a glossy Les Paul with what looked like  _ glitter  _ sparkling in the finish and striking golden fittings. It was a beautiful guitar, if not a little tacky. Salieri sat down at the piano bench, the simple upright used for recording. Mozart leaned over the short top of the instrument and glanced at Salieri’s hands. 

“How well versed are you in the art of orchestra?” Salieri asked, his eyes refusing to linger on the tattoos that wound their way up Mozart’s sleeveless arms. 

Mozart laughed. “Not at all, if you can believe it. I’ve never even put my hands on a piano before.” 

Salieri wasn’t exactly surprised. “Well if you’re going to have a clear idea of what sounds you need for this… collaboration, you’ll need to know a little about the structure of piano music.” 

Mozart thought for a moment, then reached past Salieri and pressed a few keys with a tenuous finger. Salieri couldn’t help but examine one of the tattoos on his arm, ribbons of musical staves that wrapped whimsically around the entire length and disappeared under the cuff of Mozart’s rolled-up sleeve. As Mozart keyed a few more notes with a thoughtful expression, Salieri wondered if the tattoo was really the soul mark. He tapped them in order, from his perspective, playing backwards up the scale. After a pass, he located a triad and played a C chord, then an A chord, and a D chord. Salieri was shocked that he was able to grasp the basics so quickly, but also while looking down at the piano from the wrong angle. 

Mozart frowned. “They don’t sound quite right.” 

Salieri looked up at Mozart. The chords were played perfectly, what was it he wanted? As Mozart played C again, Salieri added the inversion with his left hand, giving the chord a bass. Mozart knitted his brows together, and Salieri wondered what kind of intricate gears were turning in the musician’s head. 

“That’s a little better, I suppose. It’s so much grander when I think it in my head.” He sighed, “It’s all so finished in my mind. It is always a great hassle to pour that onto a page. Feels like there is not enough ink in the world.”

Salieri was uneasy when he felt his breath catch in his lungs, his eyes watching closely as Mozart’s fingers stilled over the keys. Behind the tick eyeliner that Mozart let smudge all around his eyes, there was something there. Something intelligent. It was obvious that Mozart’s genius on his instrument was no facade, he wore his passion for music so plainly on his sleeve. Maybe they had a little more in common than Salieri had originally supposed. 

“Can you play me something, Signore Salieri? Watching you will help me understand.” 

Salieri nodded. There was only one melody he  _ could  _ play, the one that spun in his head at all times, the one that guided him on his path as a musician. Without thinking, his fingers keyed out the strokes of the song imprinted on his mind from birth, his soul song. 

Soul songs were also rare. Very few people generated them, and there was no real rhyme or reason as to why they manifested. Salieri knew why his had, of course… it was to lead him to his destiny as a composer. 

He played a few measures, and when he looked back at Mozart, the other was awestruck. He watched Mozart’s mouth gape open and closed, and he slid himself into the seat next to Salieri, their shoulders brushing. Mozart copied the motions Salieri had made, reproducing something that was uncannily similar to the melody played. 

His heart dropped at the sound of his soul song manifesting at the hands of such an inexperienced player, but it was still wildly impressive that Mozart was able to replicate it. “How did you do that?” 

Instead of answering, Mozart played a few more measures of the song that  _ only  _ played in Salieri’s head, typed out on crude triads much less elegantly than the movements that Salieri had demonstrated. Now, his heart really did sink. He had never put that song to paper, it was far too intimate to share with the  _ world.  _

“How do you know this song?” He asked, his voice struggling to stay steady in his shock, his heart racing at the feeling of his sacred song being ripped from him, at the idea of this lewd, popular celebrity boorishly tapping it out on the keys like it was nothing. 

When he looked up at Mozart, however, his face looked just as ghostly white as his own must have. He extended his tattooed arm out so Salieri could see it more closely, see the little notes that decorated the scales that wrapped around his arms. 

“I’m afraid I was cheating, just a little.” 

Salieri read the music, and sure enough, the symphony of his soul was etched into the Austrian musician’s skin. He looked back up at Mozart. “This is your soul mark?” 

Mozart nodded. “What about you?” 

Salieri swallowed. “I don’t have one. That’s my-- my soul song.” 

“Does that mean--” 

“That’s unprecedented.” A soul song didn’t usually tether two individuals together. Soul songs were a solitary experience, something only the listener knew, something they could choose to share with others or choose to keep to themselves.They never meant--

“You really are my soulmate,” Mozart said, a smile drawing on his lips. 

Salieri frowned. Soul marks are infamous for leading a person to their soulmate, while soul songs didn’t have such an implication. Mozart had always known he would find a soulmate one day, but this is the first time Salieri had ever lent it a serious thought. He could feel his face flushing, his emotions overwhelming him, the questions he longed to ask flooding his head. 

Under the weight of everything, he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t even think. Fight or flight demanded that he run, so he stood from his chair and politely excused himself from the studio they shared. Mozart must have understood, because he made no move to stop him. He let Salieri speed off with a stupid, satisfied smile on his lips. 

There was a stalled restroom just down the hall. He shut himself in a stall and put his face in his hands. A soulmate. He had a  _ soulmate,  _ and it was Wolfgang Mozart, the Sunset Superstar who wore too much makeup and would do lines off a woman of the night’s bare bottom if you double dared him to. Hell, one dare may be sufficient enough. 

Salieri, who’s been alone all of his life and expected to be alone for the rest of it, had a soulmate. Had the missing piece been what made him so melancholic? Should he blame Mozart for the chronic loneliness he always felt? Those born with a soulmate say that the world is a more miserable place without them, and God help you should your other half ever die, but Salieri had always felt that sting of hollowness. Mozart may have been able to brush it off as lacking his other half, but Salieri had no idea. 

A  _ soulmate.  _ Why didn’t he feel happy? Where was his relief? He had never wanted to dedicate himself to another, and he had certainly never wanted someone else to be responsible for his own happiness. A soulmate was never something he wanted. A soulmate felt like an excuse. 

An excuse for what? 

“Maestro?” He heard a tentative voice from the entrance of the bathroom. 

“Forgive me, I’m having a minor mental catastrophe. Nothing to worry yourself with,” he said in response. 

“Sure, sure. It’s alarming news,” Mozart replied. He pushed the stall door open, since Salieri had not locked it. “Though like I said the other night, I think I could do a lot worse.” That grin was impossible to hate. 

“I’m indecent,” Salieri claimed, but made no move to protest. 

“You’re just sitting there.” 

“Any man is rendered indecent when he is sitting on a toilet, regardless of whether he is using it or not.” 

Mozart laughed. It was a terrible sound, but Salieri was getting used to it. “You do make the most unexpected jokes. Exactly my style. I knew it would be you, you know.”

Salieri’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh? How could you possibly have known?” 

“Tsk, you mean you aren’t drawn to my music the way I’m drawn to yours?” Mozart squeezed himself into the stall in front of Salieri. “Our collaboration wasn’t a coincidence. I specifically asked that  _ you  _ help compose it.” 

A week ago, he would have thought it impossible that Wolfgang Mozart listened to classical music. After speaking to him, after witnessing that passion shine through in his every action, Salieri believed it easily. The breath caught in his lungs, and he realized just how close they were. 

He felt his face flushing. “If someone came in, I think they’d get the wrong idea.” 

Mozart smiled and leaned over him, his lanky hands landing on either side of the tank. “Oh no, we wouldn’t want anyone getting the  _ wrong  _ idea.” 

Salieri rolled his eyes and put a hand on Mozart’s chest, gently pushing him away. “I get that you’re Wolfgang Mozart and can do whatever lewd acts strike your whim, but I’m Antonio Salieri who has coworkers he has to face every morning.” Mozart caved to his touch, and they both stepped out of the bathroom stall. “I don’t think that’s the kind of reputation I’d like to cultivate.” 

Instead of taking it as a rejection, Mozart happily bounced after him as they left the bathroom. “It’s  _ only  _ your reputation holding you back? Were it not for that, you’d do whatever I wanted.” 

Salieri rolled his eyes. “I can’t expect a rockstar to be humble, now can I. That would be asking beyond your means.” 

Mozart clicked his tongue matter-of-factly. “Afraid so. I would never ask you to unclench your asshole, now would I?” 

His soulmate’s humor was certainly more crude than he could have hoped for. He knitted his brows and pushed back into the recording studio where they had been experimenting with the composition just moments before. Mozart skipped ahead of him and sat down on the bench, only to pat the seat beside him, an invitation for Salieri to sit by his side. Salieri rolled his eyes, “Shouldn’t you be playing your guitar?” 

Mozart tsked. “I’m just so eager to learn just a little more. I’ve been playing guitar all my life, never piano.” 

“Why not?” Salieri asked. “Why wouldn’t you have learned piano with a soul mark like that?” Mozart tried a few keys, playing the inverse the way Salieri had demonstrated. “It’s not like you lack the aptitude.”

“My father was the one who taught me. He had a guitar, so that’s what I learned.” Mozart kept adding notes as the sounds grew more and more complex. “Herr Salieri, there is something awfully familiar about this.” 

Mozart was clearly proficient at the Piano. He  _ must  _ have learned it at some point, but that doesn’t exactly make sense. How do you forget about learning an instrument? Salieri sat down on the bench beside him. As he watched Mozart, he kind of understood what the other meant. Mozart’s fingers were long and deliberate, as if they were made for playing piano. The way his fingers found all of the correct keys with so much calculated intention seemed terribly familiar. 

“Another life, perhaps,” Salieri postulated.

Mozart’s hands stilled, and he looked up at Salieri. There was surprise in his expression, but there was something else as well. Sadness? Longing? “Do you believe in that kind of thing?” He asked. 

_ They say soulmates get another go. That they’ll always find eachother, no matter what life they’re in. _

Where had he heard that? A movie? 

“I’m not sure. I think I’ve heard of it,” he said. “It does seem a little ridiculous, though.” 

Mozart shook his head. “I don’t think so. Sometimes I feel like I have lived many lives.” He smiled. “Maybe I’m just a little more in touch with my past lives than you are, Antonio.” 

Though he didn’t want to admit it, there was something about Mozart that made him feel like an old soul. Behind all of that reckless abandon and childlike persona, it seemed like there was more sadness behind those rich brown eyes than one could fit in a single lifetime, especially one as short as Mozart’s.

Salieri ignored the accusation in favor of asking Mozart his age. “How old are you?” 

Mozart returned to keying the piano. “Nearly 21. Why?” 

Lord forgive him for using his name in vain, “Jesus fuck, a child.” 

Mozart laughed at Salieri’s curse. “I do feel a lot older than that. When you get famous so young, everyone treats you like an adult. They don’t think about how they’re asking a teenager to act.” 

Salieri knew what he was referencing. Mozart has been in the spotlight for years, and so much of his image is sexual. “I’m sorry.”

Mozart scoffed. “What, it’s not like I’m traumatized or anything. Without the attention I would have shrivelled up long ago,” his tone was playful. 

The dynamic shift made him feel uneasy. Mozart continued. “You’re like, 25 right?” He whistled. “Practically middle-aged. Don’t worry Signore, I’m used to older guys.” 

Salieri pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please, for the love of God, do not elaborate.” 

“I’m only teasing.” 

Salieri realized that Mozart was playing music on the piano. Nothing he had ever heard, but music nonetheless. “You don’t seem like you need my help.” 

Mozart stopped playing. “Nonsense. You have a far better grasp on symphony composition than I. Please don’t let me distract from your genius!” He said optimistically. He stood from the bench and danced to his guitar. It fit so effortlessly in his hands. It really did seem like Mozart was made for creating music. 

Mozart jumped into a lengthy exposition about the image he had for this collaboration, his fingers picking experimentally at rhythms and chords, constantly waiting for reassurance from Salieri, but the older man seemed to have little to add. The direction from Mozart was genius, and his dictation was nearly flawless as he commanded the symphony in his head. It was like he never erased… the notes that appeared on the page were finished as is. It was brilliant, the foresight and mental gymnastics that went into Mozart’s music. 

It made Salieri fill with pride where he was hollow before. This man was his soulmate. God, he really  _ was  _ in trouble if this was the kind of talent that would stand by his side for the rest of his life. How could he ever stop worshiping him? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you remove the direct competition element, their dynamic is shockingly more healthy. Of course, Salieri's impostor syndrome never goes away. I may be projecting.


End file.
